


I'm Locked Up (In You)

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: Take my hand--Take My Whole life too [74]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Prison, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, season 6 based, tiny bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:19:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon asked; I saw that u reblogged that picture of noel on set in the orange jumpsuit???? I wondered if you could write a fic w here after the breakup Ian visits Mickey in prison and tries to sort things between them (maybe a little fluff if poss???)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Locked Up (In You)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes!!! I'm actually shitting myself for season 6 :\ :(:(I want them to reconnect!!!!!! I'm so pissed off STILL that they left it like they did

Mickey had been locked up in his cell for the past two weeks; someone had busted him for renting the girls upstairs. After breaking a few bones of the guys who thought it would be hilarious to tell the cops, Mickey felt he was safe from moral arrest; as he now knew, life was a bitch and doesn't go the way you want it to.

Prison was similar to juvie; just a smaller cell, more brawls, more guys wanting to hop into his ass and make him their bitch. Obviously, Mickey wasn't going to let that happen and if someone purposely dropped his soap onto the floor he'd beat them around the head with it.

Like everyday for the past two weeks, Mickey slummed in his bunk, staring at the ceiling as if it would give an the answer of an escape plan. Really, he didn't understand the concept of home until he lost the comfort of it completely. Mickey was starting to think he lost the sense of home before he even got busted.

"Milkovich, you've got a visitor." The guard slams his hand against the metal bars of his cell door.

 Mickey leaned up against his elbows, squinting at the strange comment. Strange, not for some guys in there, that someone was actually there to see him. Despite Mandy grilling his ass, and Iggy giving Intel on the business, Mickey had no idea why he expected anyone else to come. Especially Ian. Somewhere in his mind he thought maybe Ian would come and make things just a little better; after two weeks, Mickey knew it was too good to be true. Just a lousy dream wrapped up in his broken heart.

Laying back down, Mickey grunts. "Tell em' to leave." Even if this place was a shithole and was infested by men with leaking dicks and hard knuckles, Mickey had no time to listen to Iggy whine about sorting the business out alone.

The guard sighs, his body suggesting he was getting agitated. Even though they all knew Mickey was the son of the cruel and unremorseful Terry Milkovich, they didn't seem to mind Mickey that much. The guard places his hands in his belt, "This guy is pretty persistent. You've got two seconds before the chance is up."

Mickey stays quiet. Guard Johnson, Mickey believes his name is - he doesn't really give a shit if he's honest-, places his hand against the metal bar. "Visiting hours are a a luxury for some people in here."

Mickey starts cracking his knuckles, bored already with the mediocre conversation. Then again, nothing interested him that much anymore. Mickey shrugs against his bunk, "Well, I ain't some fucking people."

The guard, of course, is already tired of his shit. Mickey's surprised that he hadn't left yet. Guard Johnson slams his hand against the metal bar, one last time. "Last chance, short ass."

The nickname makes Mickey wince; it was expected, Mickey couldn't magically stretch his legs and make himself look taller. Staring at the cracks in the ceiling; counting each scratch, trailing his eyes over the bumps in the eroded plaster,  Mickey finally gives in. It might be good for him to see someone he knew. Even if it was Iggy's ugly mug.

***

The guard leads Mickey into the visiting room where a row of panes of glass divided the room into half. The guard unlocks his handcuffs, directing him over to the third window. As he sits down he doesn't expect his heart to fly out of his chest and explode before him.

Ian Gallagher. Ian fucking Gallagher was sat on the other side of the glass; his hair slicked back, eyes bright and wide, a worried expression on his face. So he should have, Mickey thinks. His red hair was brighter, the vibrant copper like the stars in the polluted, dark Chicago sky. Mickey could guess that Ian was there; he believed that Ian was ready to finally say goodbye or break the news that he was leaving again. After everything, Mickey didn't feel a thing. The last time he laid eyes on that face they were standing on the stupid porch, having a stupid fucked up conversation that resulted in them never being what they were. The last he knew, Mickey was being chased by a loaded gun; Ian had been no where to be seen.

That's what hurt the most.

Mickey doesn't dare look over, shifting in his seat as he grabbed for the phone. Ian does the same, his lips slighting curling into a smile - as if scared of whether to show signs that he was happy to see Mickey. Ian takes a deep breath. Mickey listens; he has nothing to say, not at all.

Ian rubs a hand through his hair, glancing up. "Uh, hey, Mickey." (Mickey really hated how the nickname Mick had suddenly disappeared.) Mickey stays quiet, looking down towards the small table attached to the window between them. Growing a little beat, Ian tries again, "Just like old times, huh?"

Mickey jolts. Ian was right in a sense; over the years, Mickey had been in and out of places like this. Ian had come to visit, but it didn't feel like that. Back then, Mickey wouldn't admit it but he wanted and was excited that Ian was behind the glass. This time, he was scared. That was an unusual emotion for Mickey; Ian always brought out new and different things from inside of him, emotions and feelings that he never knew existed. It was like old times; but it felt like that they were taking two steps back than two steps forward. The game was burnt out now.

Ian catches his stare, his face turning into a twisted concern. His fingers tap against the small table attaching the window, fingers pale in contrast to his black fingerless gloves- that Mickey swore were his at one point. Ian leans forward against his plastic chair - Mickey wishes he could hear the creak of the plastic, just something that made this feel more real  - and he stutters before talking down the phone, eyes locked to Mickey's now ducked head. "You going to say something?" Ian asks, a little irritated but by the shake in his voice Mickey knew this wasn't so easy for him either.

Mickey shrugs. He had nothing to say. There were no words.

Ian sighs, itching behind his ear with his index finger. "Isn't speaking what we're meant to do here?" Ian's voice increases in volume, the tone a little drawled and broken.

  
"Fuck knows." Mickey finally speaks, his voice a shock to himself more than to Ian - it felt different now he was speaking to the person who broke his heart. Muttering, Mickey bows his head, hand clutched tightly to the phone. "No one comes to see me."

Guilt washes over Ian's face; his eyes drooping with the sudden slump of his body, as if he was tired of letting Mickey down. Mickey should be used to it now. "Oh." Ian utters, his fingers playing at the wooden frame of the window separating them. "Mick, I'm sorry I didn't - well, come see you. I just - I didn't know." It almost sounds like a confession; Mickey didn't feel enough to hear this. He looks up, mostly because Ian had referred to him as he used to, because Ian's voice sounded genuinely broken, ashamed.

"I didn't know." Ian whispers, his own head bowing down in shame.

Mickey suddenly feels anger. He's unsure why, but its an usual feeling that he had never been strong enough to control. He didn't want to hear this, hell, he didn't want to hear Ian saying this. It was bullshit. Everything was bullshit now. Trust was as useful as a broken wrist watch. "What the fuck do you want, Gallagher?"

Ian winces, his mouth slamming shut as words threatened to pour. He watches as Mickey consciously looks around the visiting room, from inmate to inmate. Ian utters quietly, scared for the reaction, "I needed to see you."

Mickey lets out a loud chuckle, slapping the table top before him. Raising his eyebrows, nearly hitting his hairline, he leans back against his chair with the phone now loose against his ear. "Not really the best time or place, is it?" Ian was never good with that. Ian goes to speak, but Mickey's face hardened into a snarl. "You always picked the wrong fucking times to talk."

Ian nods, his face pouring with recognition of his actions and hurt. Each time his mouth opened and closed, trying to form words, Mickey scratched at the bridge of his nose. Ian couldn't say anything; Mickey was telling the truth. They had chance to talk, two whole weeks of it, but Ian was always one to be too late to the party. Changing the subject, Ian's voice shakes. "I, uh, I went by your house the other night. You weren't in."

"Yeah, well," Mickey shrugs, glancing around the room again. Despite the fact that he now knew that Ian might have tried to sort things, he would never forgive him. "I've been locked up in this pit for nearly two weeks, you ain't going to find me there." God, he now wished he could.

Ian clears his throat, his voice was all shaky and wriggling with what looked like fear. "I needed to speak to you."

Mickey glances through the window, scared that if he looked for too long then that forgiveness would come flying back. He pulls on the hem on the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit, biting down at his bottom lip. Leaving a dreaded pause, that was clearing itching at Ian's skin, Mickey looks over towards the clock. "Then speak. Times nearly up." Mickey grunts, trying very hard not to crack his hardened frame that he had rebuilt over the past weeks.

Shyly, Ian picks at the frame of the window, his eyes slightly glazed. Mickey guessed that this is what Ian had looked like talking to Monica back at the ward; all fragile, needy and frightened to speak. Ian's voice was small, as if it had backtracked to his fifteen year old self. "I miss you."

Mickey nearly topples over the edge of his chair, his mind immediately flashbacking to the first time Ian had seen him like this.   he remained speechless, unable to form an answer. Ian sounded like Ian; the Ian who didn't lead his life through his mind, but his heart. The Ian he had fallen for. That's what hurt the most, that stole his words and fled them through a black hole.

Ian hesitates at first, his hand wobbling slightly as he raised it towards the glass. Just like old times, huh? Mickey dares to watch, his heart pounding at a the speed of light. The phone nearly drops out of his hand, the voices of the other inmates around him drowned out by his focus on Ian's hand; that pale, tired palm. The lean, thin fingers that once threaded through his. There were no words for it.

Ian's eyes flicker to his, palm flat against the window. "Say it."

Still in his trance, Mickey's breath hitched. "Say what?" He really fucking hated how Ian made his walls crumble so fast.

Ian's fingers twitch against the glass. "Tell me to take my hand off the glass." Ian's voice croaks, his words barely making it. His eyes are pleading, as if the words were the only antidote for saving him.

Deep in the core of his chest, Mickey felt himself wanting to say it. He wanted to tell Ian what he wanted to hear; he had learnt to do that through the rage of his father. He couldn't. It was too raw, too real. Those words could save Ian but they would kill Mickey in a second.

Mickey leans towards the window, shifting the phone against his ear. With a tired sigh, he breathes. "Man, say something useful, I've got shit to do." Which, honestly, wasn't true at all. There were restrictions to what you could do in a small cell shared with another thug.

The redhead's face hardened, his green eyes flickering with realisation. He couldn't be forgiven, not yet, maybe never. "Like what, huh?" Ian beckoned, looking deep into Mickey's soul. "Stabbing the next guy that steals your food? Selling cigarettes on the court? Huh?"

"Maybe." Mickey deadpanned.

Ian nods his head sarcastically, his patience wearing as Mickey tried to keep his attention else where. Ian presses the phone harder against his ear, his words sharp and loud against the muttering of loved ones in the visiting room. "Mickey, why can't you see that I'm trying here?!"

With a loud cackle, Mickey shakes his head with disbelief. This was ridiculous. He slams his fist against the table top, "Because-"

Guard Johnson steps over, placing a harsh grip against Mickey's shoulder. "Milkovich, you do that again you're back in your cell. You hear me?'

When the guard walks back, Mickey yells with humour lining his voice. "Aright!" He looks back towards Ian, anger still running through his veins. "Because," he starts, voice deep and tense. "you never gave a shit when I tried, did you?"

Ian doesn't say anything; not one word that could defend him. Instead, his face softens to a cruel hurt, that not only revealed his pain but his recognition of his own actions. Mickey sighs, mumbling under his breath, "I might as well return the favour, huh?"

There's a look in Ian's eyes that Mickey really hates; the broken layer of tears that threatened to breach the rim of his eyes. Ian looked so young, frail, like a little boy that was starting to grow into himself. Mickey dreaded to think of how he looked  himself - probably older, tired, and a little busted up in the face from a recent fight in the canteen the day before.

There's a short gasp that escapes Ian's lips, his hand growing paler through the tight grip against the black phone. "I know," Ian bows his head, defeated. "It was dumb."

Mickey ignores Ian's open emotions, trying not to react to the vulnerable look upon the redhead's face. He had done that not long ago, letting him in, and that was a huge mistake, apparently. "Yeah," Mickey laughs, rubbing at his eyes. "It fucking was."

A long pause passes over them; its like a dreaded mist that clouded over the small space between them, drowning them within its blurred path. Ian clears his throat, wiping his eyes with the palm of his hand. Speaking into the phone, he asks with sincerity, "Why are you in here, Mick?"

Mickey thought Ian would have known by now; news travelled fast in Southside - it wasn't surprising to hear that a Milkovich was locked up. Mickey rubs at his eyes tiredly, leaning up on his elbows against the small wooden table. "Uh, I got busted at the Alibi, didn't I? Girls got deported, upstairs got closed for a couple of days. Thrown me in here. I haven't seen my old man, which I guess is just some sick kind of luck."

Ian gives off a light chuckle, his face lighting a little. His expression changes suddenly, sorry shadowing his eyes as he looked through the small window. His fingers twitch against the phone, he didn't even realise that his hand had fallen from the glass. "Mick?" Ian utters, his voice smaller than before.

"What?" Mickey grumbles.

With a sigh, Ian's eyes lock to his, his teeth sunk down into his bottom lip. "How long?"

"Ah," Mickey huffs, tired of thinking of how long he had to rot inside of his cell if he didn't get release on probation. Rubbing a hand through his greasy-styled hair, Mickey lets out a long, drawled exhale. "Fuck knows, gotta get my sentence or whatever. Might release me on probation, but this is ain't Juvie no more."

Ian nods slowly, taking the explanation in. Mickey could tell that Ian was struggling to make a conversation; it wasn't as easy as it used to be. Mickey runs his hand down his face, waiting for the next question to tumble out of Ian's mouth.

"Yo-" Ian cuts himself off before he even started. He moves his chair closer to the window, his eyes wondering over Mickeys  slightly smaller and thinner frame. Biting back the words, Ian glances over to Mickey as if for confirmation to speak. "You hate me, don't you?" He asks with a quiver in his voice.

Hate. That was a word he only associated with his father. Really, Mickey knew he should hate Ian after everything, but then again Mickey had done worse years before and Ian still managed to forgive his sorry-ass each time. He grunts, "I don't like you if that's what you're asking."

Ian exhales, nodding. "But you love me?"

Mickey nearly buckles at the glaze in Ian's eyes - they're  like the surface of the glistening lake that remained untouched against the smooth winds of a summer night in July. Mickey can't look away; the words had struck him into silence and he had no idea how to recover. Love? Was that what he felt? He knows he probably does, and at one point he would of just came out with it, but now things were different; Ian needed to earn those words. "Ian, we're never going to be what we were. You know that."

Ian's hand plays nervously with the phone wire, his eyes looking away for a second before lifting back with a hopeful tint. "I know." he admits. "We can try again, though, right? We can start over -"

"Things have changed, Ian." Mickey snaps, abruptly. Ian physically flinches, Mickey always hated that. But Ian just didn't get it. "You dumped my ass as soon as you got back from that deadbeat mom of yours." The memory was still alive in his mind. "I don't trust you anymore. You have no fucking idea; none at all." Mickey feels his head growing heavy, his hand falling loose against the phone.

Ian's face breaks, his eyes shedding a single tear down his freckled cheek. He wipes his hand beneath his sniffling nose, blowing out a huge breath that felt hidden for an eternity. "It hurt me too." Ian whispers down the line; Mickey felt the other man's heart shatter, his was no longer there to break.

"Did it?" Mickey feels himself blurt, his tone hard and dark. Ian needed to understand that he shouldn't have made the choice whether Mickey stayed or left. It wasn't his decision to make. "Well, good. I'm glad it did."

The redhead lets out a breathless chuckle - the one thing that would cause Mickey's own breath hitch; oh boy, he loved that sound - and scratches the side of his jaw nervously. "You know, I didn't realise what I wanted, what I needed even, until I lost it."

Mickey understood what Ian was trying to say; hell, he felt it himself. Back then, when they fucked in the back of the store, he didn't realise what Ian meant to him until they were separated. He felt that now, even so, he felt it most of the time. Ian had a sincerity in his voice; a genuine expression on his face. Mickey felt himself crumble from the inside out. "You don't need me, man."

Ian's face twists, scrunching up into a frown of confusion. "You say that, but I do." His eyes flicker to Mickey's, catching the disbelief in the brunettes eyes. "Mick, no one - they can't even look me in the eye anymore. I'm just some stranger to them." Mickey felt his chest collapse all over again.

Mickey clutches the phone, for some reason he wanted to feel some sort of contact. "For a while, you were a stranger to me too."

Ian ducked his head in shame, exhaling louder down the speaker of the phone, "I fucked up."

That, he did. They both knew that. Mickey clicks his tongue, looking over quickly before picking at the wooden surface of the table. "You don't need to tell me what I already know. You're wasting your breath."

For a moment, Ian did shut up. They shared a while just breathing, waiting for each other to make the first move. It felt like the beginning, like they were initially starting over. Ian's in the motion of trying not to bite his lip off, his breathing steadying but not yet in control nerves. "I need you, Mick." He slices through the silence like a butchers knife, nearly knocking Mickey off of his chair. "You need me too. Just admit it."

Mickey's not sure what to say; he felt that they had teleported back to the abandoned buildings where Ian tried to get him to open up, tell him how he felt. Just like then, Mickey felt himself close up completely. There was an underlying fear that never went away, a shadow following him like a black cloud, waiting for him to stumble and catch him out. Shaking his head, his heart in his throat, Mickey stumbles, "I ain't making that mistake again."

Ian's face turns to instant hurt, the strong build in his eyes shattering on the spot. "But you want to, right?"

"I might want to but that doesn't mean that I can, aright." Mickey confesses in a whisper, his body leaning closer to the window. As much as he did have a hard reputation in there, people would still pick and prod at you for being different. He wanted to be alive by the time his sentence came, and he couldn't protect Ian on the outside. Even if he felt he shouldn't in the first place, he wanted to. "I just - I just can't." He couldn't risk being hurt again, feeling as if his heart had been ripped into two pieces and eaten by a brawl of viscous wolves.

Ian imitates Mickey, leaning closer to the window, his voice in a whisper. "You're scared of this. Of us. Of me."

Mickey's head rears back, a scowl forming against his face. If anyone had been scared it was Ian. "Of course I was fucking scared, you left me out there to die." He's not surprised to hear his own voice raise higher than usual, he couldn't rid of his anger towards Ian for leaving him and shedding any concern over him in the matter of seconds.

"Mick-"

"No." Mickey growls, planting his hand flat against the surface of the table. Ian's lips slammed shut. Mickey shakes his head, his words pouring out like water from a tap. "Even if we did try, I'd still be locked in here for a long time. You aren't going to wait for me."

That's what he feared.

Ian raises his eyebrow, his voice containing the same grumble that fled through Mickey's. "Oh, yeah? Says who?"

"I do." Mickey demands, trying to get it into Ian's level headed skull that Ian could do so much better, be so much better, without him hanging around and being thrown in and out of various cells.

"Well, you don't get to make that decision for me." Ian bites back.

Mickey hums to himself, shaking his head with the phone still tight in his grasp. His mind ultimately shoots back to that singular moment where Ian had called the shots, where Mickey didn't have a choice at all to have his own say. "You chose for me." He croaks, cursing to himself.

Ian places the phone against his mouth, just like he had when Monica had visited in the ward. His eyes are glazed over, tears threatening to full over the border of his eye lids. Mickey briefly captures the sight of the white bandage hidden beneath Ian's jacket, wrapped delicately around his wrist. He goes to ask but Ian's already talking, his words barely there. "Please, Mick."

Mickey can't take it. He can't do this, not again. He sees what he's done to Ian, what Ian has done to him; its not healthy, it's not right. Mickey can't get the bandage out of his mind. "Let it go, Ian."

"No." Ian snaps, shaking his head more rapidly now. His jacket falls past the bandage, he doesn't seem to notice but Mickey does. Ian hisses through his teeth, trying to remain calm. Time was running short and he needed to get this out. "I can't. I won't."

Mickey feels himself tracing the line he sees peeping from underneath the bandage with his index finger against the glass. He subtlety hears Ian's words, but he can't help feel the knot in his stomach grow. His face riles with disgust, not of Ian but himself. He quickly pulls back his finger, "Shut the fuck up. Don't say that shit to me."

Ian was right, it did feel like old times.

"But, Mick," Ian whines a little, "I want you, I want us." He lifts his freehand, placing it back on the glass window as he did before. A tear falls against his cheek,"I miss you."

Mickey can feel his hand yearning to reach up, for a second he felt it hesitate to touch the glass. He clears his face from the wetness clamped to it - he couldn't look like this - and laughs to himself; this was ridiculous, Ian was ridiculous. "Take your hand off the fucking glass."

For the first time, Ian giggles. Ian sounds light, happy even, as if his younger self had possessed him in those milliseconds. He takes his hand away, clenching it into a ball against the table. They are both laughing, heads ducked, shyly sneaking glances at each other, a bashful fluster against their cheeks. Ian sighs a little, pulling himself together. "I'll wait."

Mickey shakes his head, "No, you won't."

"Watch me, Milkovich. Fucking watch me." Ian challenges, his eyes finally lighting up in a way that Mickey missed over the past couple of months. It held Ian. Just Ian. The Ian who thought the world was nothing but playground of hope. His Ian. And shit, did it break his heart.

Suddenly the light, tension in the air, the glow between them disappeared as the guard yelled, "ONE MINUTE LEFT."

Mickey nods towards towards the guard, his face shifting into wonder and apprehension. "You'll wait?" He asks, still in disbelief, still unsure whether this was the right thing, whether Ian was the right thing.

Ian places the phone against his mouth again, cradling it almost. With his chin lent upon the plastic frame, he nods slowly, eyes welling up. Mickey feels himself grow hot, his hands sweaty, his face flustered. This was crazy. Despite the bandage, Ian looked rather healthy, "You taking your meds?" Mickey asks, still concerned. As much as he tried to rid lf it, It never went away, not really.

Ian places the phone back to his ear, sighing a little. "Yeah, one day at a time, you know."

Mickey knew that for sure. Heartbreak didn't leave after a day; I stayed and wallowed within you, the only answer is to take it head on and live each day at a time. "When you asked me," Mickey starts, drawing Ian's attention. "If I'd stay with you even if you wouldn't take them, I would of said yes." Suddenly, he feels himself suffocate. He places the phone on the hook.

Ian sits there stunned, his mouth agape, the phone nearly dropping from his ear. Mickey could see that he had accepted it, though, that he had understood what Mickey was actually saying. For once, he was thankful for the fact that Ian was so observant.

Just as Mickey gets up, tired and worn from it all, he hears Ian's knuckles tap against the pane of glass. He turns, cursing as he realised that he couldn't look back from that face; even if he needed to. He looks at the clock; 20 seconds left. He grabs the phone, "You've got twenty seconds, man."

Ian nods, clearing his throat. "I need to tell you something."

"Right, shoot."

Unexpectedly, Ian places his phone onto the hook, standing at the window with his palm pressed against the glass. Mickey stood still, shocked and unable to think. Ian's mouth moved almost angelically, his lips forming the words that Mickey hadn't heard just yet. "I. Love. You."

Even when Ian dropped his hand off the window, when the guard led Mickey back out, when his thug cell mate slumped in the bed below, when the cell door was locked and all the lights went out, all Mickey could think of was one thing.

Ian fucking Gallagher.

 


End file.
